by Will Rayner
Chapter 19
Lieutenant Jimbo Bracken had his stogie emitting noxious fumes, Sam Flood was drawing on his pipe and T.J. Flood was puffing on an Old Gold. The occasion was another confab in Sam’s office about the Baggett case.
“The thing is, we’ve tracked down the source of that unfriendly crossbow which was zeroed in on young Thomas and his mortal anatomy,” Bracken said.
“It’s about time,” T.J. muttered, wrenching his thoughts away from the Mission District.
Bracken ignored him. “It apparently belonged to a sporting group – a very private sporting group – which likes playing around amongst the bushes like a bunch of Red Indians, indeed they do.”
“Except that the Indians didn’t use fancy weaponry like crossbows,” Sam said.
“Exactly, my dear Samuel,” Bracken said. “The crossbow is a controlled weapon these days, by the way. You can’t buy one at the corner gun shop or from a mail-order catalogue. It is not illegal to own one, apparently, but it is to use it, except under controlled conditions. Hence the secret handshakes and the tip-toeing through the woods, yes indeed.”
“So how did this crazy broad find out about it?” T.J. asked. “I gather these clowns didn’t put a notice in the paper.”
“A letter,” Jimbo Bracken said. “A letter from a lawyer to one of his clients advising him about the legality of owning and using such a device.”
“Jane Brown’s job,” Sam said. “Of course. She came across the letter in the files, right?”
“Right as rain, Samuel, bless you. Purely by chance, I would say. The owner lives out on Pine Street, in a detached house. Our Miss Brown waited for the right moment and appropriated it, indeed she did. Our sporting gents didn’t report the theft because the crossbow didn’t actually exist, if you get my drift.”
“This woman has intelligence,” Sam said. “She has a mind.”
“You are as astute as ever, my dear Samuel,” Bracken said. “The noggin-tweakers back at the department say she can plan, she can organize, she can follow through – up to a certain point. The thing is, somewhere along the line a sort of blood lust takes over and she throws caution to the wind.”
“Blinded by a rage that must have built up over the years,” Sam said. “I wonder why she hasn’t tried using a gum.”
“Afraid of them maybe,” T.J. said. “A lot of people are. Also, they ain’t all that easy to come by if you don’t know the ropes.”
“I may venture to suggest that they are noisy, too, my dear young Thomas,” Jimbo said. “Our errant adversary seems to prefer stealth over loud bangs.”
“How is Mr. Baggett holding up?” Sam asked Bracken. “I can spot some of your crew outside our building from time to time. I assume they’re doing as good a job out on Pacific Heights.”
“Mr. Randolph Baggett is being well taken care of, if you don’t mind,” Bracken said. “He did request at one time – a request we denied – that Flood and Flood be stationed inside his residence as insurance.”
“Nuts to that,” T.J. said. “I’ve retired from the bodyguard business, thank you very much.”
“We’re fully booked, anyway,” Sam added.
“Ah, yes,” Bracken said. “I do believe you are doing a few chores for that Atherton chap from Los Angeles. Poking around a little bit, are you?”
“More like observing rather than poking,” Sam said.
“Whaddya think of that bird anyway?” T.J. asked.
“Mr. Edwin Atherton?” Jimbo Bracken took a tentative drag on his cigar butt. It glowed encouragingly. “The thing is, my lads – this is off the record,” he said, “Edwin Atherton talks a good game. He is smart, he works hard – or appears to work hard – but I really think he sold the Board of Commissioners a pig in a poke. He’s a thimble-rigger. I might almost say he’s pulling off a shell game. A bunch of gumshoes, if you pardon my frankness, boys, ain’t going to clean up this police department. You need the Bureau, or maybe a special State team out of Sacramento. Go after the racketeers feeding the corruption – Packy Shannon, the McDonough brothers. What Atherton is doing is like raking your lawn. You can get rid of a whole bunch of leaves, but next year, they’ll all be back again.”
“He pays well,” Sam said.
“Well, the Floods are certainly an asset, indeed you are,” Bracken said. “Atherton talks a good game, but you boys play a good game, even though you go out of bounds now and then.”
After T.J. and the lieutenant had left, Sam opened his office window a trifle to help dispel the haze of tobacco smoke. There was a hint of rain in the air but the afternoon was still pleasantly mild. Jimbo Bracken’s appreciation of Edwin Atherton is pretty close to mine, he thought as he straightened his desk. A little harsher, perhaps, but Jimbo probably had an axe to grind. It couldn’t be much fun having the place you worked under a cloud of suspicion and mistrust. The truth is, Atherton’s methods and his posturing couldn’t disguise the fact the San Francisco Police Department was riddled with corruption. Is Flood and Flood on a crusade, too, he asked himself? The answer came swiftly: Definitely not. We are private detectives and we can hire out to whoever we choose. At the back of his mind, however, was the unanswered question about what the Floods would do if they were asked to put aside their complex relationship with the Turk Street Social Club.
****
T.J. waited for a couple of days before calling Packy Shannon. The idea about using Vido Cerutti as an instrument of punishment had not blossomed immediately, but when it did, he knew it was the surest way to clean up South Van Ness. When Shannon came on the line after the usual delay, his tone betrayed both resignation and impatience. “What have you got this time, Flood? A sure-thing longshot in the fourth at Narragansett? You’re gonna have to stop calling me. People might think we’re going steady.”
“And a good morning to you, too, sir,” T.J. said. “This time, I’m not donating, I’m requesting. I would like to borrow Vido for a couple of hours next week, if that is okay with you.”
Shannon took his time answering. Finally, he said: “What for? Need a free ride somewhere? Did that jalopy of yours finally crap out?”
“I need him to lean on somebody – a copper. Flex his biceps, play tough.”
“It ain’t good manners to push the fuzz around. You’d better cough up a few details.”
“There’s this slob of a patrolman who walks a beat on South Van Ness,” T.J. said. “He’s extorting moolah from all the shopkeepers. A couple of bucks here, a couple there. Shakes them down every week. Threatens to cite them for violations. Pure highway robbery, just by flashing his buzzer.”
“Why have you got your undies in a knot, Flood? You got a long-lost cousin runs a tattoo parlor down there.”
“He’s a bully. I really don’t give a damn about flatfeet palming a few bucks to look the other way, but this is straight extortion. It pisses me off.”
“You’re soft-hearted, Flood. It sounds like a penny-ante racket to me. But he’s not kicking anything back my way that I know of. That’s against the rules. Maybe he does need straightening out. Trouble is, Vido ain’t on the payroll to slap people around, especially anyone from Kearny Street. But if you need to scare the knickers off somebody, Vido’s the lad who can do it. When do you want him?”
T.J. paused for a moment. “Next Tuesday, around eleven o’clock,” he said.
“Well, your tip about the Opera Alley bust was right on the money, so I guess I owe you one. I’ll get Vido to call you.” As usual, the crime lord hung up without another word. T.J. carefully replaced the receiver on its hook. He felt he should move in slow motion because any sharp gestures would cause Shannon to change his mind.
****
Vido Cerutti called T.J. in late afternoon. “Mr. Shannon said I should help you with a problem, Mr. Flood,” he said in his high tenor voice. “What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to impress upon this copper that he shouldn’t be stealing from the people he has sworn to protect,” T.J. sai
d.
“A policeman stealing? That’s not right, Mr. Flood. Does he rob them?”
“Not directly. He forces them to give him money.”
“Gosh, that’s not right. What should we do?”
“We’ll work it out next week when we meet,” T.J. said. They arranged to have Vido pick him up in one of Shannon’s Packards. Oh boy, I’m gonna ride in a big Packard, T.J. told himself. Be still, my racing pulse.
****
When Vido showed up on the agreed Tuesday, he was driving a Packard all right, but it was one of the Turk Street Social Club’s lesser models. Good enough, T.J. thought, and seated himself on the soft rear bench as if he did it every day. He gave directions and they headed for the Mission District. T.J. and the muscle man had once collaborated briefly in a showdown against some drug-pushers, but they didn’t talk about it. Instead, they discussed the ground rules for the operation ahead. “No really rough stuff, the boss says,” Vido piped. “No hitting a cop.”
“No hitting a cop, agreed,” T.J. said. “But you can rough him up a little. Scare the bejesus outta him. We have to make him stop robbing ordinary citizens.”
Vido parked the Packard in front of the barber shop and across from the Mom & Pop store. They surveyed the area for a moment. A narrow vacant lot separated the grocery and a boarded-up storefront on the corner.
“Let’s check that out,” T.J. said, pointing. They crossed the street. The lot was weedy, with clumps of trash here and there. A rusty bed frame was leaning against the derelict building. They inspected an oil drum in the middle of the lot. It had been used at some time as an incinerator and had holes punched in it near the bottom for ventilation.
“Perfect,” T.J. said. Vido looked at him quizzically, then caught on. Wordlessly, he mimicked the stuffing of an object into the oil drum.
They returned to the car and waited. Presently, the fat cop came into view. “Let’s nail him before he goes into that grocery store,” T.J. said.
Vido got out on the driver’s side and walked across the street. “Excuse me, Mr. Policeman,” he said.
Officer Marr turned around and spotted Vido Cerutti. “You’re’ jaywalking,” he said. “Code violation. Two bucks fine, cash, payable right now.” Marr’s peremptory demand for a bribe erased any thoughts of a reasonable dialogue from Vido’s mind. He grabbed him by the uniform front and spun him around. He transferred his grip to the scruff of the neck and grabbed the copper’s belt with his other hand. Trailed by T.J. and some hoarse squawking, Vido propelled the patrolman toward the oil drum. Then he upended him with one mighty heave and stuffed him head-first into the drum.
T.J. bent over to where he could see the patrolman’s contorted face gasping for air. “Now, listen carefully, Officer Marr,” he said. “This is Pete McDonough’s territory, not yours, and he doesn’t like your little, private collection agency. You stop taking money from these people right now, or we’ll be back. And this time, we’ll really mean business. Capice?”
****
Miss Jane Brown floated through the quiet byways she knew so well. The radio cars blindly rushing up and down the streets brought, as always, a smile of derision to her thin lips. I have my own car now, she thought. But it is silent, not noisy. It is a ghost car and it will carry the ghostly one on her righteous rounds.
Her mind dwelt upon the hotel. It was a den of the rich and greedy, and it seemed to hold a special attraction for the evil one. He goes there often. I must find out why, she told herself. I must watch. And there is the other evil one. The old one. He must be brought before my bar of justice, too. Greedy and selfish. If only the two evil ones would come together again. Then my justice will be swift. If not, they will perish one by one. So be it.
Chapter 20
Sam Flood was playing tourist. He was wearing a cloth cap instead of his Silverman fedora. He was dressed in casual clothes and held a partly unfolded map of the city in one hand. Sam was in Portsmouth Square, which was on the edge of Chinatown and therefore one of the most logical places to find all kinds of tourists.
His focus, however, was on the Hall of Justice across Kearny Street. Sam Flood was waiting and watching. A payoff was scheduled and his job was to be there when it happened. Before the Atherton investigators began tightening the noose, Pete McDonough’s payoff brigade would march boldly into police headquarters to conduct their business. Now, a certain degree of circumspection was required. The bribery was now conducted close by – on the corner of Merchant Street, perhaps, or in a nearby alley, or across the street in the square, as long as it was outside the Hall.
Sam faded into a patch of shade and brought the map up to obscure his face when he saw the police captain walk out of the Hall’s main entrance. Sam had a photograph of the captain although he knew him by sight. The captain jaywalked across Kearny and entered the square. Sam edged a little closer, then became intently interested in his map as he spotted another man rapidly approaching the captain. This fellow is definitely not a tourist, Sam thought. His appearance was seedy in all respects – unkempt hair, unshaven, rag-tag attire. The pair quickly found a quiet spot and a large envelope – shocking in its whiteness – appeared in the stranger’s hand. With one smooth motion, it disappeared into a fold of the captain’s clothing. The payoff. Sam quickly put his map away and pulled out his watch to note the time. Now the next order of business was to follow the stranger back to his starting point. Sam was reasonably sure it would be one of the McDonough hangouts, but he had to make sure.
The tail job was short and simple. The unkempt stranger waited until the police captain had returned to the Hall of Justice before heading north on Kearny Street. He was not hurrying, but walking briskly. Sam followed at a comfortable distance, hoping that this pace wouldn’t last too long. These old pins of mine are more used to a leisurely stroll, he told himself. The target did not glance behind him. He stopped once, to light a cigarette, but did not bother to check his surroundings. They passed the International Hotel, on the other side of the street, but there was no dancing Manuel this day. At the corner of Columbus Avenue and Kearny, it was over. The stranger turned into the Boomerang Café. Mission accomplished, Sam Flood decided. The Boomerang Café was one of the known haunts of the McDonough brothers.
Abruptly, Sam decided he had enough of this part of the city. It wasn’t one of San Francisco’s most lovable tourist destinations. He took a streetcar downtown. Passing the solid evidence of the office buildings in the city’s core, the tension in him eased. Commerce was conducted here, honest commerce, not the shadowy manipulations of a corrupt police force. Familiar Bush Street brightened Sam up even more. This was Flood territory and shady payoffs were few and far between.
****
T.J. Flood lounged at the bar in an after-hours gin joint on Jones Street. Watching and waiting. He was working undercover, with a three-day beard, a battered straw skimmer pushed back off his forehead and wearing old work clothes. Edwin Atherton was convinced the blind pigs in the Ellis-Polk District were being serviced regularly by two cops in a patrol car and longed to catch them in the act. T.J. had parked himself in the most likely establishment, ordering a bottle of beer. It was a pay-as-you-drink joint and because the privilege of imbibing illegal spirits after hours came with a price, the cost was steep. After sizing up T.J. for a few minutes, the bartender strolled over, gave the bar top a couple of perfunctory swipes with a rag and said: “Stranger to these parts, mister? Ain’t seen your mug in here before, far as I can remember.”
“I might be a stranger to this place, mebbe, but I’m a local yokel,” T.J. said. “Call me Jeff. Grew up on Bryant, not far from the stadium. Been down Bakersfield way, working for one of the oil companies.”
“You ain’t no roustabout, your mitts are too clean,” the bartender said.
T.J. laughed. “That’s for damn sure, pal. I had a soft job – driving one of their trucks.”
The bartender turned to a drinker farther down the bar. “Hey, Virgil,” he said, “This bird
grew up near Seals Stadium.” Turning back to T.J., he added, “Virgil is a big baseball fan.”
Virgil, who was short and bald, moved down a couple of stools. “Go to watch the Seals all the time,” he said. “Watched Joe DiMaggio play. What a ball player! Now he’s with the Yankees, got a coupla more hits the other day.”
“I know,” T.J. said. “He’s another local yokel. I saw him play a few times at the ballpark myself. Almost caught one of his foul balls once. Hitting over 300 in his first year in the big league. Got three hits in his very first game.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Virgil said, getting excited. “His folks still live in North Beach. They’re fishermen. Did you know Joe’s real first name is Giuseppe?” I had that figured out already, T.J. told himself. Something better happen around here pretty soon. I really don’t want to talk baseball with ol’ Virgil.
And it did. The door banged open and two burly cops pushed themselves into the smoky interior. One of them bent over the bar to look at the liquor bottles racked underneath. “Ain’t that illegal booze?” he asked nobody in particular. The other copper checked out the sparse collection of customers. His eyes fell on T.J. Walking over, he said, “Come in here often, fellah?”
“Nope. Do you?” T.J. answered.
“Watch that lip, buddy,” the cop said. “You live around here?”
“Down on Bryant, near the stadium.”
“He knows Joe DiMaggio,” Virgil piped up from down the bar.
“Dry up,” the cop said without turning his head. “What’s your racket, pal?” he asked T.J.
“I drive an oil rig,” T.J. said. “Taking a few days off.”
